


Things Have Changed For Me (and that’s okay)

by heartshapedcandy



Series: Clarke and Lexa College AU [6]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 08:39:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3643815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartshapedcandy/pseuds/heartshapedcandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times they don’t talk (and one time they do)</p>
<p>or</p>
<p>more college AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Have Changed For Me (and that’s okay)

 1.  

There is a painting hanging over the couch in Clarke’s living room.  She painted it for the school art show in eleventh grade.  It is the view from her bedroom window at sunset, all faded hues and a dusky pink that took Clarke hours to perfect. 

 

Clarke stares at it all afternoon as she lies, limp and impassive, on the floor of the living room.  Her mom left for work early in the morning, slipping into Clarke’s bedroom to kiss her cheek.  She had sat by Clarke’s bedside briefly, hovering and nervous right on the edge of the mattress. 

 

“I’m so glad you are home, sweetheart,” she had whispered stroking a hand down the curve of Clarke’s cheek, “Things are really going to be okay again.”

 

Clarke thinks that must be easy to say when you are only faced with seeing someone for a week; it’s easy to act like everything will be fine when in seven days you will no longer have to pretend. 

 

She stays on the rough shag rug of her living room until the patch of sunlight that shines, watery and translucent, through the window makes its way entirely across the room.  The cat comes to investigate her briefly, nosing at her curiously, unsure of this stranger in his space.  Clarke wonders if she even smells like herself anymore.  If instead she smell like the hustle of her dorm and the fruity, sweet of Raven’s shampoo that she borrowed and never returned.  She thinks that there is no way she smells the same, or even looks it.  She feels molded and pressed, the ache of fingerprints scar her skin and her heart is lead and heavy.

 

She reaches out her hand, palm up, to the cat’s curious nose and he sniffs at her once before scurrying away, his footsteps padding quickly to the kitchen.  She finds it in herself to be vaguely offended and turns her head into her own shoulder, curious as to if she can smell what seems to be wrong with her.

 

One sniff of the sweatshirt she is wearing and her stomach fully bottoms out, she struggles to reach at the hem and pulls it over her head.  It gets tangled up in her arms and she almost hyperventilates trying to get it un-caught. 

 

It smells like her, like Lexa. 

 

And she remembers all at once that Lexa was the last one to wear it.  Pulled it on over her bare torso before she hurried off to class.

 

“That is so un-classy,” Clarke had smirked, sitting up in the bed, “You realize you will be going to your lecture nearly naked, you are going to lose some of your goody-two-shoes points with that little act of rebellion.”

 

Lexa had looked over at her, not quite smiling, just fond and deep, biting at her lip as she stared at Clarke in her bed. 

 

“It makes me feel close to you,” she had answered.

 

The memory makes Clarke want to vomit and she leaves the sweatshirt in a pile on the floor, moving for the first time in hours from her sprawled spot on the rug.  Some part of her, hooked deep in her chest, wants to cry, but she chokes it down like she has been doing for two days now.  It presses into the solid breath of her, making it hard to fully inhale.

 

It is a sacrifice she is willing to make. Lexa doesn’t deserve her tears, doesn’t deserve for Clarke to break for her like she always does.  Clarke will not be the one to peel herself open, to be left aching and alone in the rain or in the bed or in her room or scattered on her living room floor. 

 

That weakness is not a commodity she will allow herself again. 

 

She storms up to her room, a canvas still propped on her easel.  Her paints have been spread out on her desk since she got home, but the canvas has remained clean and untouched in its stand. 

 

Clarke messily mixes paints, jerky in her movements, splattering a spray of green up her forearm.  It is soon joined by a smear of purple that curls over her fingers, bleeding into the whorl of her fingerprints and staining her face as she wipes her hand across her cheek. 

 

She tries to paint the sunset. 

 

It is sloppy and childish, the paint doesn’t smooth across the canvas and she can’t remember the feel of the color pink.  An anger start to build, steadily overcoming any sort of sorrow that keeps hold in her throat, overwhelming the hollow in her chest and filling it with a sort of blind fury.

 

It settles there, curling tightly through her body, making a home in the space that Clarke’s scream leaves vacant in her lungs.  Clarke slashes red over the canvas, destroying the misshapen sunset and leaving her palms tinted crimson. 

 

She collapses into her bed until her mom gets home.  When Abby’s calls Clarke to the table for dinner she goes downstairs without looking at the chaos she leaves behind.  Smudges of paint color her freshly cleaned sheets, and her room has never felt less like home. 

* * *

 

Dinner is stilted.  Abby and Clarke sit on separate sides of the table as they eat takeout straight from the boxes, Clarke asks Abby about her day and is asked the same in return.  She mumbles something about going into town because admitting that she lay on the living room floor for the majority of the afternoon isn’t exactly going to make her mother proud. 

 

Clarke sees the cat peeking its head around the corner of the counter, but when she looks at him he darts away. 

 

“How is everyone at school?” Abby says, swallowing a bite of rice as she ducks her head to meet Clarke’s gaze, “How about that roommate of yours? Raven?”

 

Clarke smiles at her name and finally meets her mom’s eyes.  “She’s good,” Clarke says, hands moving her fork from hand to hand, “she’s so crazy, it’s hilarious.”  Clarke attempts to tell her mom a story that Raven told her about her engineering class.  When Raven told it to her and Octavia it literally had them on the floor laughing, but Clarke can’t seem to capture it the same way that Raven does.  Abby laughs anyway though, and Clarke loves her for it. 

 

“Wells is on spring break as well, Clarke,” Abby says, reaching across the table to tap Clarke’s hand, “you two should try to get together.”

 

Clarke smiles despite herself and nods, “Yeah, definitely.  I really miss him, trying to keep up over text just doesn’t quite cut it.” 

 

Abby nods and takes another bite before she continues, “And—um—Lexa? How is she?”

 

Clarke freezes, she feels a heady rush of shame, embarrassment, and anger where the sadness was before.  “We broke up,” Clarke says, trying to sound nonchalant, “It wasn’t working out.”

 

Abby looks up, not overly concerned, but slightly sympathetic.  “I’m sorry, sweetie,” she says, “Lexa seemed very…directed.” The casualness with which she says her name and gives her apology bites into Clarke so hard she almost gasps. 

 

No part of this feels “I’m sorry, sweetie” or “It’s going to be okay” or even “there are plenty of other fish in the sea.” Because she’s not and it’s not and there aren’t. 

 

Clarke excuses herself, so she can run up to her room and retch over the toilet.  She throws up everything she ate and when she wipes the back of her hand across her mouth, she tastes paint. 

 

Her mom does laundry and leaves it piled at the bottom of Clarke’s bed the next morning.   Her sweatshirt is among the folded clothes.  It no longer smells like Lexa but Clarke hides it in her closet anyway.  Clarke can see the way Lexa took it off in her dorm room when she got back from class, inching it up her torso, baring more and more warm skin.  The thought of her is a torture and the room smells sharply of paint and Clarke’s palms drip red and she can’t breathe. 

* * *

 

Wells is smiling so hard when he opens the door that Clarke worries his face will split in two.  She is not used to seeing people look that happy and it throws her off so much she almost forgets to return his hug. 

 

He hugs her like he has since they were kids, a little too hard with his arms wrapped around her waist.  She finally throws her arms around his shoulders in return and huffs a laugh into his neck. 

 

“I missed you,” Clarke says, holding him tighter.  He answers by lifting her up and spinning her through the doorway, eyes shining with excitement when he lets her down.

 

“It feels like everyone we knew in high school is here,” he says gesturing through the foyer into the living room, “it’s the blast from the past that I didn’t know I wanted.” 

 

She grips his hand as they enter, finding at least 30 people all piled into the room.  There are so many familiar faces, people she passed in the halls and sat next to in classes for 12 years, now all almost strangers.

 

They smile when they see her, standing up to hug her or just screaming her name from where they slouch on the floor, already more drunk then they should be.  Clarke sits down next to Wells, leaning against him with her back.  She throws her legs over the girl next to her, Carrie.  Clarke stuffed cake in Carrie’s face at her seventh birthday party and taught her how to use a pad when she got her period in eighth grade.  Clarke is across from Naresh who kissed her behind the swing set in first grade, and Brent who kissed her in the back seat of his truck in eleventh. 

 

She is surrounded on all sides by people she has histories with as far back as she can remember.  They know everything about her, from her goldfish she brought to show-and-tell in elementary school to the time she experimentally died her hair pepto-bismol pink.   They know about her dad. 

 

It is easy to become the person she was in high school, to fall back into the role that she perfected for so long, people look to her with a sort of admiration and she pretends that it doesn’t make her feel sick. 

 

Carrie hands her the bottle of vodka they are passing around and Clarke passes it to Wells without drinking.  Getting drunk would be too easy, and she wants to feel everything, nothing should temper the harsh sting that sits heavy in her chest, she needs to remember. 

* * *

 

Someone turned on music about thirty minutes ago and now everyone is dancing, sloppy and happy, to the beat.  Clarke stays leaned in her corner, watching.  Wells wandered off to dance a while ago and Carrie is straddling Tanya on the couch across the room, which is so predictable.  Brent strides over to her, alcohol-confident and strong as he leans next to her, reaching out to fit a hand on her hip. 

 

“You’re looking good, Griffin,” he says, massaging his thumb above the hem of her jeans.  The way he slurs his words when he is drunk almost reminds Clarke of—

 

But no, because _she_ would never hold her hip this hard and _she_ wouldn’t say “Maybe once for old time’s sake,” before leaning in. 

 

Brent is attractive, tall, and his hands are warm, so Clarke lets him kiss her.  If she closes her eyes and tilts her head it’s almost like—

 

But no, because _she_ wouldn’t grasp her chin like this between a pointer finger and thumb the way Brent does, moving her jaw more firmly to slot against his mouth.  But Clarke lets him, and it’s fine she tells herself.  It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, so she moves her hand to his back under his t-shirt while he strokes her tongue with his own. 

 

They find themselves in one of the guest bedrooms upstairs and he pulls her dress over her head.  He doesn’t undo the zipper up the back and she thinks she hears one of the buttons pop off.  Brent doesn’t notice though, and his hands move hungrily to her chest.  He kisses her, hard and bruising, while her hands reach for his belt.  And this is fine she thinks while he gasps hard against her mouth, this is fine, this is fine, this is fine. 

 

And if she doesn’t breathe while he moves against her she can pretend it’s—

 

But no, because _she_ hadn’t created this rough ache inside her, making her feel raw and invaded.  Brent is burying his head in her neck as he gasps against her skin, thrusting harder with stuttering hips.  Clarke stares at the ceiling and thinks of that first night in the back of Brent’s chipped green pick up truck.  Nothing has changed as she digs her fingernails into his shoulders, but then she thinks of Lexa and feels that familiar warm tug in the base of her stomach and everything has. 

 

She wakes up curled at the edge of the bed, Brent stretched out next to her, a heavy hand still resting on her hip.  She rolls out from under him, pulling up her underwear and clasping her bra with some trouble, she pretends it’s because she is tired and not because her hands are shaking. 

 

She finds Wells in his room, and presses a kiss to his cheek while he stirs. 

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she whispers to him, letting herself smile as he mumbles a sleepy confirmation. 

 

She drives home in dusky almost-darkness.  She can feel Brent’s touch still heavy and grasping on her skin.  She wonders if this means she is reset now, if nothing since high school has even happened.  But Clarke can still feel the warmth of Lexa against her, and the press of her mouth against the hollow of her throat.

 

Clarke decided she will let herself miss her, just for this car ride, just for a little while. 

* * *

 

On the last day of spring break Clark paints the sunset.  It is muted and stormy, a faint glow of orange edging around gray clouds.  She stands in front of her easel, paint streaked and burning, and reminds herself that everything is fine. 

 

2\.  

Lexa stares at herself in the mirror. 

 

Her eyes are appraising and her hands nervous, smoothing over the front of her dress reflexively as she winces away from her reflection.  Lexa’s hair is held back from her face in braids that curl around her ears and settle down her back.  Her makeup is tasteful and modest, dress hem settling barely above the knee and neckline scooping just below her collarbone. 

 

Lexa always hates the way that she looks in her home, can’t remember the last time she saw a smile reflected back at her in the bedroom mirror.  She eyes her outfit again and reminds herself that every action matters, every movement and word and placement of her hands will be noted, will be motive for cold words and disapproving stares. 

 

It feels weird to worry so much about her appearance when the person she has most wanted to impress of late seemed to like her best in sweaty gym clothes and soft pajama shorts with baggy t-shirts. 

 

Lexa blinks hard, turning away from the mirror, these are exactly the things she can’t be thinking about.  Clarke is better off now, Lexa reminds herself for the thousandth time, she did the right thing. 

 

The words are an empty assurance and they ring hollow in the cavern of Lexa’s chest.  There was nothing right about the way she had made Clarke’s voice quiver, there is nothing right about Lexa’s cold bed and even colder heart. 

 

She breathes deeply before smoothing her dress down one last time.  She heads downstairs with quiet steps, but the click of her shoes is still loud enough that the people sitting at the table look up when she enters.

 

Since Lexa and her siblings are all home, they are seated in the grand dining room today.  It is all sweeping ceilings and a sparkling chandelier, there are two forks by every plate and cloth napkins held by brass rings.  It is excessive and sparkling, just the way that Lexa’s mother likes it. 

 

Since Lexa’s father is away on business, Genna’s new husband sits at the head of the table.  He flashes bared teeth at Lexa as she enters and she looks him in the eye like she knows she should, nodding once in recognition. 

 

Genna sits at his right, ignoring Lexa after an initial glance.  She twists her new wedding ring round and round her finger, fidgeting and nervous.  It is almost a comfort to Lexa she is not the only daughter who feels the weight of her mother’s gaze.  Almost. 

 

Lexa had not attended Genna and Robert’s wedding.  Her mother had decided that it would not benefit Lexa to take off school for the week her attendance would have cost her.  “Your nights will be best spend studying,” her mother had said, clipped and faux regretful into the phone, “We wouldn’t want to cost you any of your time, Lexa.”  She didn’t tell her mother that she spent all those hours of precious study time undressing her girlfriend in the dorm room that her mother’s money had bought, kissing Clarke until she was gasping and wet beneath her. 

 

Lexa gets a certain satisfaction thinking of that while she surveys the rest of the room.  Cara is propped, bored and languid, against a clean cut young man with slicked back hair.  Her new boyfriend, Lexa guesses, and she tries to choke down the surge of guilt and jealousy she feels when Cara makes a show of taking his hand as Lexa looks over.  That leaves only Becca who laughs loudly at something Robert says, making Genna grimace sourly in her direction. 

 

Four sisters, a matched set, now complete with shiny husbands and boyfriends that wear cuff links to a family dinner.  Lexa settles into her seat beside Becca, glancing at the chair to her left.  In another world Clarke could sit there.  In another world her mother would ask Clarke questions about her major and be charmed by her beautiful, beautiful smile.  In an entirely other universe, Lexa would hold Clarke’s hand on the tablecloth, leaning over to kiss her just because.

 

But this is reality and Lexa folds her hands on top of the tablecloth instead, bowing her head as the people around her say a pre-dinner grace.  She watches her mother survey Robert and the new boy with satisfaction and Lexa works to find the bitterness that she can always conjure when she goes home, an impenetrable coating that lets the comments glance off her and the judgments fade. 

 

She can’t quite find it though.   When Lexa digs too deep she just misses Clarke.  She regrets every decision that led her here, here to this dining room table where she is a black blotch in the family history, here where there is no Clarke because she pushed her away out of fear and the staggering weight of inevitability. 

 

The dinner is cutting, with Becca and Genna exchanging snide remarks across the expanse of table.  Cara alternates between watching them fight with disinterest and leaning over to whisper comments at the boy next her.  His name is Jason and he seems nicer then the usual young men that Cara brings home.  His smile is kind, and he tries to start a conversation with Lexa at least twice before Cara shuts him down.  This family will break him Lexa thinks.  She doubts she will be seeing him again after this week. 

Lexa’s mother turns toward her, rigid in her high-backed chair, white pearls looped gaudily around her neck.  She feigns a smile, toying with the stem of her wine class as she fixes Lexa with a still gaze. 

 

“I trust school is going well, Lexa?” she asks.  The other occupants at the table turn at the words.  Cara and Becca looking almost hungry, relishing at the sight of someone else being targeted tonight. 

 

“Yes Ma’am,” Lexa says.  Her voice is low and quiet, she refuses to drop her mother’s gaze, jaw trembling over the immensity of the endeavor, “classes have been very nice this semester.”

 

Her mom leans forward with faked interest, “I would hope so,” she says, equally low, “with the B’s that you have been getting I should expect that youare having quite a good time.”

 

Lexa nods, fingers toying with the tablecloth hem, “Yes Ma’am,” she says again.  She longs to say more, to explode and boil and rage, but that is not their way so she just simmers, biting the inside of her mouth so hard that she tastes bitter copper. 

 

A second course of dishes distracts them, and her mother turns back to Robert, listening to him preen loudly, inflated by his own loud words and hungry smile. 

 

Lexa eats in silence until the meal is over.  She waits for Becca to excuse herself and follows soon after.  Her heart doesn’t slow until she reaches her bedroom and closes the door firmly behind her.  She had forgotten what that felt like, the show and formality of it all, with no one saying what they mean but everyone understanding what goes unsaid. 

 

It feels almost wrong to complain, Lexa thinks as she takes out her earring and moves to the bathroom to wipe off makeup with soft white pads.  Despite herself she loves them, she loves her mom and her sisters and the warm weight of her father when he is home.  There was a time when things weren’t like this, when home wasn’t synonymous with animal fear and carefully arranged words.  Lexa’s sisters used to push her on the swing in the backyard, Genna carried her propped on her hip for entire summer days, pressing kisses to Lexa’s cheek and soothing her when she cried. 

 

They did well in that wordless existence, before summers were dreaded things and Lexa had fallen from grace.  She looks in the mirror as she wipes the cleansing pad over her cheek, she thinks again of those summer-sweet kisses and then, as usual, of Clarke.  Clarke who obsessively pressed her lips to the curve of Lexa’s cheekbones, who welcomed Lexa’s words with a greedy mouth and an eager tongue. 

 

Lexa reminds herself of the dinner she just attended and her family that sits, stifled and removed, at the table downstairs.  This is why, she tells herself, this is why, this is why, this is why.

 

Clarke couldn’t exist here, not in this home, not in the empty hearth that Lexa’s heart will inevitably become.  Love is not a risk that Lexa can afford to take, such commodities will leave them even more broken then before.  Lexa’s family comes first, her people, her blood. 

 

The words ring false, empty.  Lexa turns from her reflection before she can figure out the shape of the lie. 

 

She falls asleep that night in a bed that feels too big, only realizing that the pajama pants she is wearing are Clarke’s after she puts them on.  They are the shorts with elephants dotted across them; Clarke had liked them on Lexa so much that they had eventually migrated over to her wardrobe instead.  They have long stopped smelling like Clarke, but Lexa pretends that they still do.  She turns her face into her pillow and curls her legs to her chest.  Lexa would cry if that were something that she did, but she just breathes instead.  The regret and weight of missing Clarke presses so heavy on her chest that even that simple act is a struggle.

 

Lexa wonders if she messed up.  To make things simpler she pretends that she doesn’t know the answer.  Lexa allows herself to live in ignorance for another night, in sheets that don’t smell like her and a house that has never seen her laugh and with a family that hollows her, one breath at a time. 

* * *

 

When Lexa wakes, there are several sleep drenched, hazy moments where she forgets where she is and everything that has happened.  She reaches lazily across the bed, hand searching for the solid warmth of a sleeping Clarke. 

 

When she remembers Saturday, her stomach drops uncomfortably fast and she retracts her hand quickly, pulling it back toward her body as though that will eliminate her desire to hold her. 

 

She had dreamed about Clarke, and it returns to her in fragments.  Memories of the smell of her and the curve of Clarke’s waist against Lexa’s hands are all that lingers and Lexa rubs her eyes so hard that colors burst behind her eye lids. 

 

She can’t really pretend anymore.  She messed up.  She was so scared of breaking that she was the one to shatter them, to make Clarke cry and shake her head and choke out a gasp at the unrecognizable cold of Lexa’s eyes. 

 

But Lexa is so scared of the irreparable distance of Clarke and the even more terrifying proximity of her family.  They are her flesh and blood, they created her, molded her.  She can’t turn her back on the sanctity of that bond. 

 

Lexa swings her legs over the side of the bed and slips out her bedroom door.  If she can get in and out of the shower in five minutes then she won’t have to leave her room until dinner time, she can be alone with her guilt and this particular kind of puzzle as well as a research paper that is due the Monday she gets back, heartbreak doesn’t exactly exempt her from class. 

 

She has almost made it back to her room when Robert exits Genna’s room, already dressed and polished despite the fact that it is 6 am on a Monday morning.  His mouth curls into a smile at the sight of Lexa, and he makes a beeline for her before she can fully escape. 

 

It is the smirk that pins her first, and then his hand as it presses to the wall just to left of her, leaving her trapped between him and the cream-colored trim.  She is conscious suddenly of the shorts that ride high on her thighs, of her thin tank top that cuts low across her chest. 

 

He is leaning closer to her, entirely invasive and charged.  Lexa broke a boy’s fingers in tenth grade for less then this, a matter her mom had cleaned up with a few phone calls and a discussion with the boy’s father.  Lexa is strong and capable, confident and smart.  She knows all this logically, yet can’t escape from Robert’s smirk and the feel of his hand as he raises it to grab her chin between his pointer finger and thumb.  She knows this is a fight she can’t win.  While her mom had her back in all of the other skirmishes she has been involved in, if only to clean up the evidence of Lexa’s mess, no one will choose her over Robert. 

 

Lexa is helpless now, and she can’t even bring herself to clench her jaw or meet his eyes, she just looks at the handkerchief in his front pocket and reminds herself to breath. 

 

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Robert says, voice light as he leverages Lexa’s chin up further until she consents to meet his eyes, “Genna’s told me some very interesting things.”  He raises an eyebrow and she realizes with a burn in her chest what that smirk means he is talking about.

 

“Get away from me,” she says, quieter then she wants, but with hiss and anger that makes him let got of her chin, even though his left arm stays where it is.  He keeps talking as though she hasn’t interrupted him.

 

“Apparently you caused some real family drama, didn’t you?” he knows he has the upper hand again and leans in a little closer, “I heard that your mother caught you fucking the maid’s girl, isn’t that right?”

 

Lexa recoils further against the wall, she wants to correct him, to defend herself, to tell him to never talk to her like that again, but her tongue is frozen and her cheeks are burning hot. 

 

She remembers that day with horrible clarity.  She was 16 and in love.  She hadn’t been caught “fucking the maid’s girl,” she was caught kissing Costia, her best friend and the daughter of their housekeeper, careful and slow in the sunny nook of the first-floor kitchen. 

 

The fall out that followed was catastrophic, with Lexa grounded for the better part of eleventh grade and Costia’s mom fired.  Lexa hasn’t seen Costia since, and maybe they weren’t some epic love or the beginning of a Hollywood romance, but Costia was her _best friend_.  Lexa loved her and suddenly she was gone. 

 

Their family doesn’t speak of it.  It is an embarrassing occurrence, the regretful happenstance that makes them all shake their head disapprovingly and their eyes glimmer with a touch of disgust at the sight of her. 

 

It is with a lurch that Lexa pictures Costia’s face again, laughing and open, accepting her kisses with soft hands and pursed lips.  Lexa thinks of Clarke then, of the low husk her voice gains in anger, of the pure energy of her aggression.  Lexa finds her voice at the thought of her, and stands up straighter.  For once Lexa doesn’t carefully consider consequences or strategy, she just reacts without puzzling the merit of every action. 

 

It is with a strong shove that she pushes Robert away, and she delights in the way that he stumbles backwards, hands pin-wheeling to steady himself. 

 

“You heard right,” Lexa says, she approaches him, all defiant anger and lean muscle, “I fucked her right on the kitchen counter, and you know what?” She pauses, surveying Robert who is frozen in front of her, unprepared for her to put up any sort of fight, “It was fucking amazing,” Lexa says grinning, sharp and feral.  She brushes past him and slams into her room, leaving him red faced and stuttering behind her. 

* * *

Lexa doesn’t write her research paper.  Instead, she sits swaddled in blankets on her bed and watches horrible movies that make her smile despite herself.  She can hear the commentary that Raven would be providing in her head and the way that Clarke would laugh at her jokes. 

 

The day is hers, and she takes it for once.  No one else consumes her time or invades her space, her family won’t expect to see her until dinner and her house is so large that she can’t even hear the movements of anyone else.  For all she knows she could be alone.  She takes solace in the cocoon of her room and the predictability of each beat of her day. 

 

As dinner approaches she realizes she doesn’t feel the usual dread.  She is sure it is there, slunk low in her stomach if she searches for it, but it has been mostly replaced by a swell of anger that presses toward her throat.  Unlike Lexa’s usual simmer and bite, this feels stronger. 

 

She forgoes the traditional summer dresses and formal skirts that she usually wears to dinner, slipping on instead her ripped black jeans and the slinky sweater Anya let her borrow and then insisted that she keep. 

 

She walks to the kitchen, barefoot and young, not silencing her feet against the marble echo of the floor.  Her mom’s eyes find her when she enters and they narrow in disapproval, she says nothing though and Lexa realizes this is the kind of mistake she will be paying for later.  Robert avoids her gaze and she revels in the way he averts his eyes, Genna stares at him, confused and brow wrinkled.  Jason smiles at her, mouth tilted warm and wide until Cara tugs on his sleeve, redirecting his attention.  Lexa takes her seat and swipes runs her hand through the condensation that has gathered on her glass, ignoring her mom’s admonishing gaze. 

 

She continues to stare into her water all through prayer, not bowing her head, simply focusing on the crystal sheen of the still water.  Lexa wills herself to be like the glass and the water within it, calm and cool, untouched by the hidden impurity of this family and the words that she knows will come. 

 

Her mom opens with a comment that Lexa knows is for her benefit, a reminder of the way in which her mom has defeated her most overwhelmingly, the proof of Lexa’s complete submission. 

 

“Are you still dating that boy, Becca?” her mother asks, head tilted toward Lexa’s sister, but her eyes darting to Lexa quickly.

 

“Which one?” Cara asks, biting out a laugh.  Genna laughs as well and Jason just smiles, disoriented.  Robert glances up, but Lexa bares her teeth when he catches her eyes and he immediately looks back down. 

 

Her mom simpers out a “quiet, girls,” before turning back to Becca.  Becca nods primly, ignoring her sisters, leaning across the table a little bit.  “Yes, mother,” she says, and her words are pitched too keenly, she is desperate for their mother’s approval and Lexa knows how it feels so distinctly that it aches. 

 

But now Lexa’s anger from earlier is clawing its way back up her throat and she tries to choke it down.  She focuses on the glass of water again.  Cool.  Calm.  Undisturbed. 

 

“And how about you, Lexa?” her mother asks.  And here it is, time for Lexa to play her part.  Her sisters look up smug and interested, they know how she will reply, they know how this family molds you, victims to it themselves. 

 

Lexa lets her anger simmer like she always does, prepares to tell her mom about a boy in one of her classes.  She could make something up about Bellamy even, she knows he would help her out if she needed it. 

 

But then she thinks of Clarke, thinks of her inferno and snap.  Lexa tries to breathe, to put Clarke out of her mind.  She places her hand on the table to steady herself, the glass of water trembles and ripples spread from the center.  It is not calm, Lexa realizes, and she doesn’t have to be either. 

 

“No,” Lexa says, her voice firm and un-shaking.  Her mother blinks twice and starts to talk but Lexa cuts her off.  “I am in love though, if you care to hear about it.”  All eyes are on her now, and Lexa closes her eyes for just a second so she can picture Clarke.  She sees her sleep-sweet and warm, kissing her shoulder quickly.  She sees her un-tempered and raging, an inferno that never fails to singe Lexa no matter how far she tries to distance herself. 

 

Lexa opens her eyes and almost smiles.  “Her name is Clarke,” she says, breathless as she allows herself to speak the words, “and she is lovely.”  Lexa focuses on her mother, “She is beautiful and smart and so kind.  And she loves me.” she sighs this part out, swallowing hard at the thought.  She directs her look at Robert, glaring now, “And yes, the sex is fucking fantastic.” 

 

Her mom is gaping and Genna dropped her fork to her plate with a clatter at some point during Lexa’s speech. 

 

“Lexa,” her mom says sharply, “You are not to speak like this.”

 

Lexa inclines her head and blinks slow at her mother, the silence oppressive in the immensity of the room.

 

“No,” Lexa finally says, “You are not to stop me.” 

 

Her mother leans heavily against the table, cheeks red and eyes just slits as her face contorts in anger.  “You will burn in hell for this,” she hisses. 

 

Lexa stands suddenly, jarring the table.  Her glass falls on its side, water soaking the tablecloth and the glass cleaving cleanly in two.  “Yeah well,” Lexa says, studying the fragments before turning back to her mother, “I’ll see you there.”  She starts to walk away but turns before she leaves the room, directing her words importantly and commandingly at the people who sit before her. 

 

“If you try to do anything to me,” Lexa says, “if you lay a hand on me, pull me from school, or shame me in any way, I will make sure that everyone knows that you have a lesbian for a daughter.”  She smiles at her mom, “That means the women at the country club and our pastor and all of dad’s work friends.  I will mar your pretty reputation and the reputation of your sparkling house.” 

 

She leaves the room in quick strides.  It isn’t until she reaches the stairwell that what she has done hits her.  She expected regret and pain and punishment, but what she gets is this overwhelming surge of relief.  It expands to her fingertips and plays, shivering, down her throat.  She was scared for so long, and now she doesn’t have to be. 

 

She never really packed her bag when she got back the house, so all it takes is for her to throw her laptop back inside and zip it up.  She snags the car keys off her dresser and slips on shoes over bare feet. 

 

She has almost made it out the door when a hand catches her arm.  She spins fast, assuming it is her mother, and prepares to strike back.  What she finds instead is Genna, breathing hard and wide-eyed. 

 

“Lexa,” she sighs out.  And then, in what seems like a surprise for both of them, she says “I’m sorry.”

 

Lexa blinks hard, but stops pulling out of her sister’s grip, she relaxes for a second, surprised and flushed. 

 

Lexa finds her voice and shakes her head, “I’m done with this, Genna,” she says firmly, “I don’t belong here and they all know it.”

 

“None of us belong here,” Genna says, voice breaking around something that almost resembled a laugh, “We just aren’t brave enough to say it.  I mean,” she sighs hard, “she’s our _mom._ ” 

 

“Hardly,” Lexa says, “That isn’t how mothers treat their children.”

 

Genna swallows and softens her grip on Lexa’s arm, “She will still expect you back in the summer.”  Lexa looks away, “Say you will come back, Lex? For me?”

 

“Why?” Lexa asks, startled at Genna’s admission. 

 

“Because you’re my little sister and I love you,” there is honesty in her voice, and it shocks Lexa enough that she considers her words. 

 

“We’ll see,” Lexa says, settling on that ambiguous answer, “if mother lets me back in.”

 

Genna attempts another laugh, “She will.  You know she won’t be able to make it without the four of us.  A matched set,” she says, echoing Lexa’s thoughts from earlier.  Genna takes note of Lexa’s bag.  “What are you going to do?” she asks.

 

“What makes me happy,” Lexa answers softly, thinking of lies uttered in small rooms and the almost audible snap of two hearts in perfect synchronicity. 

 

“Tell her hi for me,” Genna says, and it takes Lexa a second before she starts laughing.  She can’t remember the last time she laughed in front of one of her sisters or in this house or without her chest catching from guilt and that deep set fear. 

 

Genna laughs too and surprises Lexa again, this time with a kiss on the cheek before she shoves her toward the door. 

 

“Be safe,” she says with the same serious set to her mouth as Lexa, hand brushing her arm briefly.

 

“You as well,” Lexa says, and then she is leaving the house and getting into her car.  The streets are empty and Lexa is free.  The hold that has tugged hard at her chest for as long as she can remember is gone. 

 

Lexa thinks of Clarke, thinks that she would be proud.  She faces the open road with steady hands and a broken heart.  She decides she will let herself miss her, just for this car ride, just for a little while.

* * *

 

On the last day of spring break Lexa curls in her dorm room bed and sleeps.  She dreams of Clarke, fragmented and hazy.  When she wakes she turns into her pillow and cries, and the room is so so empty. 

 

 3.  

Clarke is running on two hours of sleep, tops.  She hadn’t been able to sleep last night, and six in the morning had found her curled in Raven’s bed watching re-runs of _Friends_ until Raven eventually drifted off. 

 

Clarke had stayed awake, petting through Raven’s hair absentmindedly while Raven nestled closer into her warmth.  Raven knew about the break up now, and plied Clarke with gummy bears, ice cream, and shitty knock-knock jokes. 

 

“You just need to cry,” she had told Clarke, tilting their foreheads together, “It will help, I promise.”  Clarke had shaken her head and straightened her shoulders, she hadn’t cried since that day, and she swore she wouldn’t cry over Lexa again. 

 

She doesn’t feel much besides the quiet hiss of anger that is still settled deep in her chest.  Crying would be a surrender and, quite honestly, Clarke thinks the burn of her anger is all that keeps her going. 

 

She leaves a sleeping Raven in bed, tip-toeing around her dorm to pack her backpack with her laptop and textbook.  They have only been back from break for three days and she can’t afford to fall behind so early in the semester. 

 

She backs out of her room, fumbling with her key in the lock.  She is so preoccupied that she doesn’t notice the sounds to her left until it is too late to retreat back in her room.  She turns, fractured and still fumbling, and comes face to face with Lexa.  She is exiting her room too, hair a wild toss of curls and eyes wide as they meet Clarke’s. 

 

Neither of them say a word, just stand frozen in front of one another.  Clarke had thought about this moment, convinced herself that at the sight of Lexa she would remember how to forgive, she would fall victim to the curve of her mouth and the angle of her hips.  Instead, a harsh ferocity rises in Clarke and she wonders for a second if she is going to punch Lexa in the face.  She is certainly within range and Lexa looks absolutely incapable of defending herself, still entirely focused on Clarke, arms limp at her sides in contrast to Clarke’s which are tense, fingers balled into a fist after she finally frees the key from the door. 

 

Somehow the same part of Clarke that wants to lash out also thinks that Lexa looks beautiful.  The fire rages for her to lunge forward and bite at the pink of her mouth, to tug at her hair until she moans at the burn of Clarke’s touch. 

 

Instead she does nothing, strengthening her resolve so that they just continue to stand, silent in their observations of the other.  Lexa’s breath quickens and her mouth starts to open and Clarke realizes she is about to speak.  The sound of Lexa’s voice would be enough to tip Clarke over the edge, whatever that edge may be, so she turns.  She walks down the hallway, keys digging into her palm so keenly she worried she will break skin with the edged, metal teeth.

 

Lexa does not follow her and Clarke does not look back.  She feels empty again, desolate and barren.  She longs to rid herself of this weight, but she doesn’t know how.  She thinks of Lexa’s eyes and digs the keys in harder, the bite is almost enough to distract her. 

 

4\.  

It’s been thirteen days since they broke up and two days since she saw Clarke in the hall.  Or, at least, she saw a girl who looked like Clarke and was coming out of Clarke’s room.  Lexa’s Clarke never looked at her like that, like she was ready to rip through her, be it with words or nails or teeth. 

 

Lexa’s Clarke didn’t have bruises that curve from the top of her cheekbones to under the soft skin of her eyes, deep and purple from lack of sleep. 

 

Lexa’s Clarke didn’t have that manner of empty expression or that clench of jaw or that way of looking at her, devoid of any sort of emotion except for a glimmer of aggression in the set of her jaw and clench of her fists. 

 

Lexa can’t concentrate on her essay, she has been sitting front of her laptop for hours tonight, rocking back and forth in the rolly-chair, unable to write a sentence for the howling ache in her chest. 

 

She had half-thought she would come back to school, finally tell Clarke the story of her family, profess her love, promise to never ever fuck up like this again.  She swore that she would beg for forgiveness, confess that she has reformed, that she loves her with every breath of her being. 

 

But Clarke had run away.  She had left Lexa, gaping and defeated, at her door, lips heavy with apologies that she never got to deliver. 

 

She turns back to her computer, hovering her hands over the keyboard, glaring at the screen as though with enough mental acuity she can will this essay into being.  Lexa has barely typed her name at the top of the blank document when her door slams open. 

 

She turns in her chair, heart leaping in her chest when she sees Clarke striding toward her.  It is so much like that first time, Clarke storming in, all determination and soft hands, to kiss her.  But this Clarke isn’t wide eyed and wondering and her hands certainly aren’t soft as she straddles Lexa’s lap. 

 

Her hips press insistently at Lexa’s and her hands grab at her jaw, fingers pressing just a little too hard as she raises Lexa’s face to meet hers. 

 

The kiss is rough and hard, teeth biting at her lip until Lexa opens her mouth and Clarke can force her tongue between Lexa’s lips, smoothing over Lexa’s teeth until she finds Lexa’s tongue, pressing insistent and messy. 

 

Lexa pulls back, tries to talk, moving her hands to the curve of Clarke’s hips.  Clarke speaks before she can.  “I haven’t forgiven you,” she says, voice husky and low.  Lexa meets her eyes and they are wild, a stormy grey that she finds no affection in, just insistence as she continues, “this doesn’t mean anything.”

 

 Lexa tries to speak again, “I still lov—” she starts but is cut off by Clarke, mouth descending back on hers, catching her lower lip as greedy hands move to cup at Lexa  over her shirt. 

 

Lexa pulls away, trying again, “Clarke, I—”

 

Clarke pulls back too, stilling her hands.  “Don’t,” she says, sharp and demanding.  Clarke breathes hard out her nose, catching at Lexa’s eyes with a cutting glance.  Her hand moves to clutch at the button of Lexa’s jeans, “Now, do you want this or not?” she asks, and Lexa’s throat catches at the question. 

 

Because _God yes_ she wants this, and just the weight of Clarke on top of her is making her ache, the throb between her legs nearly unbearable.  But Lexa has so much that she wants to say, and the girl on top of her is still unfamiliar.  Clarke never touched her like this, almost detached in her ferocity, Clarke never moved this fast or this insistently. 

 

Lexa still hasn’t answered and the wild girl starts to get up off her lap, removing her hands from the front of Lexa’s jeans.  Lexa makes her decision then, because having Clarke this way must be better then not having her at all. 

 

“No wait, stay,” Lexa almost yelps, grabbing at Clarke’s hips and pulling her back down on top of her.  She starts to say more but Clarke’s mouth cuts her off.  Her fingers undo the button and she presses her hands into Lexa’s underwear without hesitation.  The angle is awkward, arm forced between their bodies, mouth moved to Lexa’s neck now, nipping red marks down the column of her throat.  She strokes over Lexa, gentle at first, and Lexa whines at the feel of it, she knows she is embarrassingly wet for such a short amount of time but any sense of shame is interrupted as Clarke moves her fingers over her again. 

 

Lexa throws her head back and clutches her hands desperately at Clarke’s waist, urging her hips more tightly against her.  Clarke rolls her hips and presses them against her own hand which in turn jolts against Lexa’s center, causing another whine to escape her lips.  Clarke continues this rhythm as she bites roughly at Lexa’s collarbone, scraping teeth down the sensitive flesh.  Her thumb rubs over Lexa’s clit as she presses two fingers inside Lexa’s entrance.  Her wrist is at an alarming angle and Lexa almost voices her concern but Clarke presses in knuckle deep and Lexa keens high and wordless in a tone she doesn’t even recognize. 

 

Clarke licks back into her mouth, Lexa’s jaw too slack to even return the kiss, she just lets Clarke swallow her noise as her hips jolt against the punishing rhythm of Clarke’s fingers.  Clarke sits astride her, all pull and push and a hot, wet mouth that makes Lexa grind harder against Clarke’s hand with a desperate groan. 

 

When she comes she gasps out Clarke’s name, opening up heavy eyes to seek out Clarke’s gaze. Lexa’s hips fall back to the chair and she expects Clarke’s ministrations to subside, for her to finally meet Lexa’s eyes and speak in that steady, rough voice that Lexa adores. 

 

But instead she says nothing, just strokes over Lexa a final time before she pulls her hand out of her pants, fingers sticky as she starts to pull the jeans down Lexa’s legs.  She scoots off of Lexa’s lap, dropping to her knees on the hard floor so she can pull them all the way off, discarding them somewhere behind her. 

 

Clarke lowers her head and kisses at the band of Lexa’s underwear before pulling them off too.  It is by far the most tender kiss she has given Lexa’s today, and she seems to realize this at the same time that Lexa does because she scoots back, biting at Lexa’s knee before standing. 

 

Lexa knows better then to try to talk again, instead she stands as well, pulling her shirt over head and unclasping her bra, shrugging out of it, savoring the way that Clarke’s eyes drop to her chest and Clarke shifts slightly forward, hands reaching out to thumb at Lexa’s nipples. 

 

She moves to kiss Clarke again but Clarke turns her head away, moving Lexa’s hands to the collar of her button-down shirt.  Lexa swallows hard and starts to unbutton it slowly, kissing the skin as it is revealed, stomach warming at the fact that Clarke lets her.  She pushes the shirt from Clarke’s body slowly, pressing her lips to the warm curve of Clarke’s shoulder.  Clarke seems to get impatient and pushes her own pants and underwear off in nearly one motion, kicking them away from her feet when they threaten to tangle at her legs.  She lets Lexa unclasp her bra, but then backs them to the bed, falling forward onto Lexa when her knees hit the frame.

 

Clarke is straddling her again, tangling a hand in Lexa’ hair and guiding her head down to her chest.  Lexa noses against the smooth expanse of her skin before sucking a nipple into her mouth, flattening her tongue against her.  She can’t seem to draw a noise from Clarke’s lips, but her breathing is heightened and she brings the hand that isn’t in Lexa’s hair to her shoulder, pressing her harder against her. 

 

Lexa brings her hand to cup at the round of Clarke’s breast, the other hand stroking down Clarke’s thigh, finding the warm heat of her with tentative fingers and a pounding heart.  Clarke rolls her hips forward again, and gasps hard at the feel, urging Lexa to move faster as she lets out a tiny, nearly silent gasp.  Clarke still says nothing though, just presses with increasingly insistent hands until Lexa complies. 

* * *

 

Clarke left hours ago, and now Lexa lies in bed, staring at the ceiling with a vacant expression and shaking legs.  She feels warm and pliant, and she can see a smattering of dark purple bruises and red bites that trail up her chest and assumingly continue along her neck.  There is one bruise on the inside of her thigh that aches particularly, and she keeps touching it absently if just to remind herself that this night actually happened. 

 

Clarke had left without much warning, bringing her fingers back from between Lexa’s thighs, wiping them on the bedspread and standing.  Lexa had learned better then to try to talk, even though when Clarke stood to go everything in her ached to beg her to stay.  Lexa wasn’t sure at what point in all of this she became the weak one, but watching Clarke, blonde hair mussed, eyes cold and narrowed, Lexa wonders if she always has been.  She deserves this punishment, she thinks as Clarke clasps her bra, pulling underwear back up her legs, Lexa broke them and Clarke doesn’t owe it to her to help her fix it. 

 

Clarke pulls her shirt over her head, hands scraping her hair into a loose bun that sits, precarious, on top of her head.  Lexa expects a goodbye kiss or a few words or _anything_ but Clarke just leaves, as suddenly as she came. 

 

Lexa is left with the silence and the bruises and nervous thoughts of tomorrow.

* * *

The next day, Lexa passes Raven and Clarke in the hallway and they both avoid her eyes.  Clarke shows no recognition but Clarke can see Raven shoot her a sympathetic look once they pass.

 

So this is how it is, Lexa thinks, heart throbbing and chest aching, so this is what she has done. 

* * *

 

Lexa spends a lot of time in Anya’s apartment.  They don’t really talk about anything, but Anya lets Lexa lie on her bed and stare blankly at the ceiling while Anya does homework and plays Call of Duty.  Sometimes Anya pauses the game and offers to let Lexa join and when Lexa declines she just shrugs.  Anya brings home twice the amount of take out she needs to and covers Lexa with a blanket when she thinks she is asleep on her couch.  These are Anya’s ways of telling Lexa that she loves her and Lexa responds in kind with solemn nods and challenging her to arm-wrestling competition at two in the morning when they are both tipsy from Blue Ribbon Beer and too much Thai. 

 

Nothing feels fine exactly, but Lexa was already used to this empty feeling before Clarke.  And when Genna texts her out of the blue on a Thursday morning to tell her that their Dad flipped out when he found out mother didn’t stop Lexa from fleeing back to school, Lexa actually smiles.   

 

Lexa wants to tell Genna that it was less of fleeing and more of going home, but she appreciates the sentiment anyway. 

 

Lexa doesn’t really expect to see Clarke again so soon, but she comes storming into Lexa’s room on a Tuesday afternoon, pressing Lexa down into the pillows on her bed and kissing her furiously.  She misses Lexa’s mouth at first and Lexa realizes it is because Clarke has her eyes squeezed shut tightly, as though opening them will prompt her to shatter. 

 

The kisses she presses to Lexa’s face are sloppy, and when she finally makes it to Lexa’s mouth she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and bites down, hard.  Lexa cradles Clarke’s face between her hands, stroking her thumbs over Clarke’s furrowed brow.  She goes to kiss her, slow and soft, just light presses of lips to the freckle over Clarke’s top lip and the apple of her cheek.  Clarke shakes her head adamantly at the light touches, ducking her head down to mouth at Lexa’s shoulder while her hand works rough and frenzied into Lexa’s shorts.

 

Lexa throws her head back, ignoring the clench in her chest as she gives in to the feel of Clarke’s fingers on her. 

 

Clarke leaves thirty minutes later without a word, still fully clothed, Lexa breathless and shaking on the bed, shorts unbuttoned and skin burning with the bite of Clarke’s touch. 

* * *

Lexa is walking back from the dining hall when she gets the text.

 

Clarke (1:16): come to the library

 

Lexa stares hard at the screen, trying to ignore their last texts that are from weeks ago.  Before they become whatever they are now.    

 

_( Clarke (2:08): i miss youuuuuuuuuuu_

_Lexa (2:09): ro to sleep clakre_

_Clarke (2:10): oh_

_Clarke (2:10): did i wake you up?_

_Lexa (2:11): what doyout thnki_

_Clarke (2:12): lol im going to take that as a yes_

_Clarke (2:13): i cant sleep_

_Lexa (2:13): try harder_

_Lexa (2:17): you can come over if you want_

_Clarke (2:17): i knew you would say that softie_

_Clarke (2:17): ill be over in thirty seconds)_

 

Lexa looks away from the old texts and works to think of the appropriate response to Clarke’s new message.

 

Lexa (1:20): I don’t simply come when I am called, Clarke

 

Clarke (1:23): then dont show up

 

Lexa (1:21): are we talking now?

 

Clarke (1:21): are you coming or not?

 

Lexa goes.  She finds Clarke in the sub-basement of the library, hidden among the stacks that look as though no one has touched them in centuries.  It smells like mildew and musk, and Clarke looks other-worldly surrounded by the shadows and towering shelves.  She doesn’t look up at the sound of Lexa’s footsteps, just keeps reading the thick volume that she cradles in her hands.  Her blond hair glows where it falls around her shoulders, and her shirt hangs loose over her frame.  Lexa doesn’t remember Clarke’s collarbones jutting out that much before, and there are still purple smudges beneath her eyes.  As soon as Clarke finishes her paragraph she snaps the book shut, standing up to approach Lexa. 

 

“Can we talk?” Lexa asks, trying not to plead, tilting her head up as she asks, clenching her jaw as Clarke appraises her. 

 

Clarke laughs, and the sound rings hollow and heartless against the stone walls.  “No,” she says, mouth curling into an insincere smile, “we aren’t going to talk.  I think you kind of lost that privilege.”

 

“Fine,” Lexa says, stepping back as Clarke takes a step forward, still attempting to assert some sort of dominance.  “Then can we at least tell Octavia and Raven that—”

 

“That what?” Clarke says, mocking and bitter, “That we’re fucking again?” She takes another step forward and Lexa swallows hard, “This doesn’t mean anything.”

 

Lexa sets her mouth and blinks slow and long, “I know you’re lying,” she says, “I know we mean something.”

 

Clarke laughs again and it’s even worse this time, “Don’t assume to know anything,” she says.  Another step.  “Now shut up.  Like I said—” She takes the final step that leaves them nose to nose, “—I didn’t come here to talk.”

 

Lexa lets it happen, falls gasping and groaning against heavy shelves and discarded books, lets Clarke push her until she breaks and then pushes back because the fight feels so good. 

 

It aches afterwards though, and Lexa wonders if this is how it will be from now on. 

* * *

Lexa wakes up, dazed and disoriented, at 3 in the morning when her bed dips with the weight of someone crawling into it.  Before dating Clarke she probably would have panicked, but she got so used to it that she doesn’t startle until some part of brain registers that they don’t do this anymore. 

 

She jerks upright, prepared to lash out, when her vision clears from the haze of sleep and she realizes she is face to face with Clarke. 

 

Her eyes are bloodshot and she smells a little bit like tequila and a lot like weed.  Lexa has never seen Clarke smoke before and it throws her off enough that she doesn’t say anything, just watches as Clarke pulls her shirt over her head and kicks off a flowered skirt.  She inches closer to Lexa and Lexa pulls away, scooting back so fast she almost knocks her head against the wall. 

 

“Clarke,” she says, voice firm and hands held out in front of her, “It’s incredibly late and you are _very_ out of it and I am not doing anything with you right now.”

 

Clarke attempts to fix her with a glare, but her eyes are comedically unfocused and she mostly just ends up pouting at Lexa.  “I didn’t come here to fuck you,” she says, stopping to hiccup mid-sentence, “I just couldn’t sleep.” The words ‘without you’ go unspoken and Lexa almost smiles until Clarke shoves her back down on the bed.  “Don’t think this means anything,” she grumbles as she tucks her head in Lexa’s shoulder, “I just need a warm body.”

 

Clarke throws a leg over Lexa’s hip and rests her hand on Lexa’s upper chest, pointer finger resting in the dip of Lexa’s collarbone, right over her pulse.  Lexa tentatively wraps her hand around Clarke’s back, stroking up and down the ridge of her spine until Clarke hums and nestles in closer.  She hears a mumbled “shut up” against her shoulder and half-smiles into the dark of her room. 

 

Clarke is gone in the morning, but there is a smudge of lipstick on Lexa’s cheek and a warm dip in the mattress when Lexa wakes. 

 

5\.  

For once the party Clarke is at isn’t Bellamy’s.  Octavia dragged her to a “get together” at Lincoln’s apartment that turned less of an intimate gathering and more of a loud-music-and-too-much-alcohol kind of event. 

 

Octavia is charming Lincoln’s friends somewhere and Raven had declined the invite, citing an engineering project that was due online at midnight. 

 

But it doesn’t really matter, not when she is splayed on the bathroom counter, skirt hitched up around her waist, head thrown back into the medicine cabinet.  She can’t hold back a moan that reverberates from her chest and, at the noise, Lexa raises her head from between Clarke’s legs.  Her hands still hold onto Clarke’s knees and her mouth is wet and glistening, she flashes a look of concern at Clarke. 

 

It’s weird, Clarke thinks as she looks down at her, that she has gotten so good at being quiet that when she makes a noise of pleasure it is a reason for Lexa to check on her.  She rearranges her face into one of disinterest and winds her hands tighter in Lexa’s curls, pushing her back down to where she was before. 

 

Lexa goes happily, licking up the length of her before working her mouth around Clarke’s clit.  Clarke lets out another moan and Lexa doesn’t lift her head this time, just presses her mouth more insistently against her.  Clarke unwinds her hand from Lexa’s hair and moves to grip at the counter, working to keep her hips from bucking as she climaxes. 

 

Lexa laps at her one last time, kissing the inside of Clarke’s thigh, before straightening.  She watches Clarke adjust her skirt with half-lidded eyes, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth before licking her lips.  Clarke pretends like her body doesn’t jolt at the sight and slides off the counter, letting Lexa kiss her once before she pulls away. 

 

“How do I look?’ Clarke asks, working to straighten her skirt.

 

Lexa sighs high and breathless in the back of her throat, “Beautiful,” she answers.

 

Clarke lifts her head up to glare at her and Lexa’s cheeks flush.  Clarke rolls her eyes, “I mean do I look like I was just fucking my ex in a bathroom?”

 

Lexa visibly flinches at both the word ‘fucking’ and ‘ex’ but reaches out to adjust the set of Clarke’s shirt before shaking her head.

 

“No,” she says quietly, “you look normal.”

 

Clarke nods once and pushes past Lexa and back into the party.  She finds Bellamy leaning near the cooler and grabs at his hand. 

 

“Can we leave?” she asks, tugging on his arm.  He looks at her questioningly before glancing at the bathroom that Clarke just exited from, Lexa is leaving it now too, head down as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. 

 

He nods knowingly and intertwines his and Clarke’s fingers.  “Yeah, Princess,” he says tugging her toward the door, “we can go.”

 

Clarke releases a sigh as they leave the apartment and begin walking down the stairs.  “Don’t tell Octavia, okay Bell? Or Raven.” 

 

He looks down at her and lets go of her hand so he can wrap his arm around her shoulder.  “I won’t,” he says, low and warm, pulling her in closer to him for a one-armed hug.  They make their way down all five flights and out onto the street before he asks, “Do you still love her?”

 

She looks up at the sky as she nods, the moon brilliant and shining in the face of her truth.  He lets out a quiet ‘oh’ before asking, “Does she know that?” Clarke shakes her head, looking back down at the ground.  “Maybe you should tell her,” Bellamy says, chucking her chin with his thumb.

 

Clarke shakes her head again, “It’s easier this way.  Attachment is painful and messy—”

 

“—and what you’re doing now isn’t?” Bellamy asks disbelieving, “This isn’t good for you, Princess.  It’s obvious to everyone but you, apparently.” He pauses, “It’s not good for her either,” he adds quietly.  “I know that what happened, whatever it was, hurt.  But, if you still love her and she obviously still loves you…maybe you should talk about it?”

 

Clarke shakes her head violently, pulling away from his warm arms, “No.  Talking is never good.”

 

Bellamy groans and stops in the street, throwing up his arms.  “Clarke Griffin you are impossible!” he yells to the sky before turning back to her and holding her face between his hands, “Fucking talk to her, Clarke, before one of you explodes. Casual sex isn’t really going to cut it when you are both disgustingly in love.”

 

Clarke glares at him and he almost recoils before she leans in to peck him on the lips, “Thanks, Bell,” she says, almost smiling. 

 

He grins down at her and takes his hands from her cheeks, pushing her in the direction of his frat house.  “I’m feeling some serious Super Smash Bros right now, aren’t you?”

 

“You are such a loser,” Clarke laughs, but she lets him push her toward the house anyway, feeling lighter then she has in weeks. 

* * *

Clarke is alone in the art room.  She got permission from one of her professor’s to work on her assignment outside of class.  “It’s just not coming together like I wanted it to,” she had sighed while he laughed and gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder.

 

“It never does, does it?” he had said chuckling and she had smiled, trying to act like this art-slump wasn’t taking its toll on her.

 

So here she was, on a Monday afternoon, standing in a classroom devoid of people but full of beautiful art, an empty canvas propped in front of her.  “Just paint what you know,” her professor had said as Clarke tried not to roll her eyes.  Because wasn’t that just earth-shattering advice. 

 

She breathed in deeply, picking up her brush and shaking out her loose arms.  Paint what you know. 

 

It takes her twenty minutes to realize she is painting Lexa.  She isn’t painting her the way she used to, sunlight-stricken or loose and languid amid tousled covers.  No, this Lexa is turned just slightly to the side, jaw clenched and shoulders set.  She oozes superiority and domination.  This was the Lexa that looked at Clarke and broke her heart, the Lexa that ripped her to shreds with that pretty, warm mouth and talented tongue, the Lexa that Clarke wants to hate but never can, not completely. 

 

She doesn’t look right, blank faced and bare on the page.  There is still an innocence there that this Lexa does not deserve to carry.  So Clarke paints black dripping around her eyes, shadows of heartbreak and lust that seep over sharp cheekbones and around haunted eyes. 

 

This Lexa is deadly and Clarke shivers to look at her.  The anger that has settled so hungrily in Clarke’s chest begins to warp and squirm.  Clarke can feel it leaving her, little by little.  So much resentment and hate is not easy to carry, and Clarke wonders when it became her responsibility to bear it all.

 

She wonders if she might be able to put it down.  

* * *

 

Clarke lies on her bed, laptop propped on her chest while she writes an email to Abby.  They are trying to talk more, to make it easier between them in all the simplest ways.  This time it is Clarke’s door that opens with no warning, and she who startles up off her bed. 

 

The intruder is Lexa and she walks toward Clarke slowly.  Clarke stands completely still, without the energy to paste on her usual look of indifference, she waits for Lexa to take her, to throw her down on the bed with anger and un-feeling lust like Clarke has been doing to her for weeks now. 

 

Instead Lexa pauses in front of her before moving her hands to cradle Clarke’s head gently.  She kisses Clarke soft and sweet and lovely, all closed mouth nudges and innocent pecks.  Clarke means to pull away or to bite back, but instead remains still, reveling in the light stroke of Lexa’s thumbs over her temple and the quiet hum that sounds from the back of Lexa’s throat.  Before she can kiss back, Lexa pulls away.  She faces Clarke seriously, pupils blown and eyes dark, wisps of hair escaping from her messy braid.

 

Then Lexa turns and leaves, she doesn’t look back or say a word, just leaves Clarke shock-still and humming, anger evaporating quietly into the silence of the room. 

 

Clarke’s pulse flutters in her throat and she can’t remember the last time it felt so good to have a heartbeat. 

 

6\.  

Lexa wakes up to the sound of her phone buzzing, Anya rolls over from where she dozes next to her and pushes at Lexa’s shoulder. 

 

“Make it stop,” she groans before turning over and burying her face back in the pillow.  Lexa sits up from where she fell asleep, wedged between Anya and the back of the couch, at some point last night.  There is an empty bag of Doritos under her left leg and the tacky flower pattern of the couch imprinted on her cheek. 

 

Lexa works to get out from behind Anya, ignoring her annoyed whine when she knees her in the calf while she clambers over her and onto the ground.  She catches sight of her reflection in the mirror mounted in Anya’s living room and groans.  Her hair is a complete tangle and she is pretty sure that those are Dorito crumbs smeared over her face. 

 

She remembers why she got up when her phone buzzes again and Lexa rushes to check it before Anya yells again.  Her text notification are enough to make her heartbeat pickup and her fingers fumble as she rushes to read them.

 

Clarke (10:45): we should talk

 

Clarke (10:47): we could meet in the common room at 12 ish if you wanted

 

Clarke (10:48): neutral ground

 

Clarke (10:48): plus i probably will be less likely to fuck you in a public place

 

Clarke (10:49): oh god im sorry that was so much funnier in my head

 

Lexa laughs despite herself, she feels nervous and heady, her mind can’t seem to focus on any one thing.  She finally steadies herself with a deep breath and types out her response.

 

Lexa (10:55): 12 in the common room would be satisfactory

 

Before she can ask punch herself for her awkward formality Clarke responds.

 

Clarke (10:55): amazing

 

Clarke (10:56): ill see you in an hour

 

Lexa reads the text and starts to smile but catches sight of her reflection in the mirror again and lets out a squeak.  Anya rolls over to face her, eyes still closed, “Please tell me that noise didn’t just come from you, Lex.”

 

Lexa just works on not hyperventilating, “Clarke wants to meet in an hour, Anya. To talk.  To _talk_ , Anya.” 

 

Anya opens her eyes and surveys the mess that is Lexa and sits up with a groan.  She waves her hand in Lexa’s direction and rolls her eyes.  “Let’s make you hot, Lex,” she says, standing up with a sigh, “Your girl isn’t going to know what hit her.”

* * *

Lexa sees Clarke first, sitting nervous and fidgeting on the green couch in the common room.  One wall of the common room is windows that show through to the dorm halls, so Lexa knows that Clarke hasn’t seen her yet.  She takes a deep breath and just watches her for a second.  Clarke runs a hand through her hair, brushing it back in a golden wave over her brow.  She is knotting her hands together absently but she jerks them apart and stands quickly when Lexa enters.

 

“Lexa,” she says, eyes wide and lips parted at the sight of her.

 

“Clarke,” Lexa says in response, watching Clarke look at her, a different kind of hungry then all of those weeks before, more familiar in her adoration.  “You wanted to talk?” Lexa asks, trying to keep her voice firm. 

 

Clarke nods and takes a step forward, but holds firm a few feet away, giving her space. 

 

“I fucked up” Lexa says at the same time that Clarke rushes out “I didn’t know how to handle—” they both stop short and laugh nervously before Clarke gestures for Lexa to go first.

 

Lexa takes a deep breath and catches Clarke’s eyes, who actually holds her gaze for the first time in what feels like forever.  “When we—” she starts before backtracking and trying again, “I mean, When _I_ broke up with you I wasn’t thinking” Lexa stops again before shaking her head, “No that’s not right.  It wasn’t that I wasn’t thinking, I was just thinking too much.  There was so much that I hadn’t done, and things I had to come to terms with.  Things about my family…” she steps a little closer to Clarke and earns an encouraging nod, “…things about me and I just didn’t know how to handle that.  Things aren’t— they aren’t great.  At home.  And I thought I had to choose them and their approval over you.  Over us.  I thought that blood came first and that family was the most important thing but it’s you, y’know,” she stops to take another deep breath, “You are my family.”

 

Clarke exhales hard and bites down into her lower lip, Lexa seems to be finished, breathing hard, unfamiliar with so many words and so many naked truths in one breath.  Clarke blinks hard and a tear slips down her cheek as she gasps at the absurdity of it all.

 

“I think you have been watching too many rom-coms, Lexa,” Clarke tries to joke but her voice breaks half way through and Lexa brings her hand up to wipe the tears away. 

 

“You’re crying,” Lexa says, wondering at the tears that stain the pads of her fingertips. 

 

Clarke laughs, watery and quiet, “So are you, you dork,” she says and Lexa realizes that she is. 

 

“Gross,” she mutters under her breath and Clarke laughs again, louder this time. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says, reaching up to clasp at Lexa’s hands that still hover over her cheeks, “Everything was just so much and I didn’t know how to deal.  I haven’t really let myself be broken since my dad died.  I thought that if I distanced myself from you,” she stops to roll her eyes at herself, “like _emotionally_ or whatever, that I could stop from breaking again.”  Clarke shrugs heavy and embarrassed, “But I think I already am.  Broken, I mean.  And maybe I need to be that way for a little while,” she meets Lexa’s steady gaze, “I think that might be okay.”

 

Lexa is smiling that little smile and Clarke grins at the sight of it, she reaches up to pet at Lexa’s cheekbones, ignoring the tears in favor of the deep affection in Lexa’s eyes. 

 

“Oh God,” Clarke chokes out, “I missed you.”

 

Lexa blinks once, slow, before leaning down to press her forehead to Clarke’s.  “I missed you, too,” she hushes out.  Her eyes fall shut as Clarke leans in slowly, brushing their noses together before kissing her.  Clarke is sweet and tender, with no biting teeth or bruising hands, just a light sigh as the catch in her chest finally seems to unravel.  Lexa’s hands move to cup at her hips and she smiles against her mouth, content and breathless at the fit of Lexa’s lips against her own. 

 

There is loud bang on the windows of the common room and Lexa and Clarke jolt apart, Lexa still clinging to Clarke’s hips despite the interruption.  The look up to see Octavia and Raven standing outside the room, Raven has her fist pressed against the window and a faux angry expression on her face. 

 

“Hey, you two!” Raven yells as Octavia doubles over laughing, “Get a room!” Raven grin cheekily at them before winking and tugging a still laughing Octavia down the hall.

 

Lexa shakes her head and turns back to Clarke, “That’s not such a bad idea,” she says and when Clarke smiles at her Lexa smiles back, delirious at the sight of her. 

 

The walk back to Lexa’s room is almost awkward.  Their hands keep brushing between them until Clarke grabs Lexa’s hand with a huff, intertwining their fingers. 

 

When they enter the room they stand facing each other for a beat.  This room has meant almost nothing but rushed sex and angry kisses for weeks now, and to stand on this familiar ground together in such a new light feels almost unreal. 

 

“Should we?” Clarke asks as she gestures to the bed and Lexa nods nervously.

 

“Oh. Yeah, of course,” Lexa says.  Clarke leads them to the bed and they sit on the edge. 

 

The night could go almost anywhere from here.

 

They could order take-out and eat it in their underwear, competing to see who can eat the most lo mein, Lexa making Clarke laugh when she gives herself chop-stick fangs. 

 

They could put on a sappy, romantic film and Clarke could pretend to not notice when Lexa cries at the end, they could fall asleep in front of Clarke’s laptop, pressing kisses into each other’s skin.

 

They could tear off clothes, foregoing any pretense, with Lexa winding up between Clarke’s legs while she gasps out her God’s name in breathy sighs.

 

They could go to Clarke’s room where they would find Raven and Octavia wrapped around one another, kissing with a desperation born from forbidden things.

 

They could get high on the weed that Clarke has tucked in her sock drawer, and Clarke would laugh at Lexa as she coughs at her first inhale and then again later when Lexa gets weirdly contemplative about their place in the universe. 

 

They could whisper “I love you” back in forth until one of them laughs and the other catches the culprit in a sloppy open-mouthed kiss. 

 

But there is time for all of those things later and instead the night ends with them curled together on Lexa’s bed, fully clothed, eyes locked as they just breathe each other in.   

 

**Author's Note:**

> I’m at nevervalentines.tumblr.com if you want to talk or hang out or cry over TV or whatever. Thank you so much for reading. I’m kinda thinking this might be the last one of the series for a while, it’s been really fun to write and everyone’s feedback has been so appreciated.


End file.
